


home in the lowlands

by green_postit



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Age Regression/De-Aging, M/M, Mirror Universe, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 20:53:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_postit/pseuds/green_postit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy is deaged. Kirk isn't happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	home in the lowlands

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Дом на дне долины](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3404609) by [kaiSSa666](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaiSSa666/pseuds/kaiSSa666), [WTF_Star_Trek_2015 (WTF_Star_Trek_Reboot_2014)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTF_Star_Trek_Reboot_2014/pseuds/WTF_Star_Trek_2015)



The Dalarans have been Empire-loyal since the First War.

They're a humanoid race that resemble the bastard love child of an Orion and a Vulcan—all pale, pale green skin and silky black hair that never so much as ruffles. They also possess the most unique physiology the Empire's ever encountered.

Scientists have been studying Dalarans for two hundred years—the Dalaran's providing ample amounts of political prisoners, thieves, and resistance fighters to experiment on. The Empire's never been at a loss for bodies, yet are still no closer to discovering how Dalarans are able to spontaneously age or de-age themselves at will.

It makes them the race time can't kill, makes them dangerous allies. They can safely live to be three hundred and when they feel death approaching, can dial back the clock and start all over again.

Tryreg—Dalaran's current ambassador—is three thousand years old but looks like a twenty-year-old boy. Kirk met him when he first took command of the Enterprise, when Tryreg was a withered and wrinkled old man with watery amber eyes and a sagging mouth that was always frowning. Now, his skin is taut and smooth, his eyes wide and sharp. His voice hasn't changed, but the overall transformation is still enough to disorient Kirk.

They're on their way to Sickbay—Kirk personally escorting him all the way to Deck Seven. McCoy noticed some minor discrepancies in Tryreg's blood work a day earlier and insisted that he reexamine Tryreg before his return to Dalaran.

McCoy and Chapel are waiting when they arrive. Chapel ushers Tryreg toward the bio-bed that's been keyed to his specific biometrics and tactfully dodges his long fingered hands and their tendency to grope. Kirk almost had to Booth Scotty when his jealousy came close to testing the sharpness of his dagger on the Ambassador's ribcage.

Before McCoy can join his patient, Kirk catches him by the upper arm, holds him back with a light pressure. McCoy's muscles tense under his fingers, but he freezes on the spot. It might have taken Kirk the better part of five years, but he managed to drill the importance of obedience into McCoy's pretty head.

"What?" McCoy says like a curse—sounds tired. He makes no indication of turning to face Kirk, a rebellion Kirk finds more endearing than McCoy would probably like to know. Kirk happily drags him backward a step, thumbs at the shell of his round, soft ear.

"You know, the more you run your mouth, the more I want to fuck it." 

McCoy snarls, his forehead wrinkling attractively. Kirk'd be lying if he said there wasn't a single thing about McCoy that didn't immediately get his dick hard. His mouth just happens to be Kirk's favorite; the plush, generous lips that feel like silk along his dick, his razor-sharp tongue that's as smooth and warm as velvet.

McCoy was practically custom made for Kirk's cock.  
"Finish up quickly. I want you in my quarters in thirty minutes." He releases McCoy's arm, smiles when McCoy roughly jerks it toward his body.

"Aye, Captain," McCoy grumbles, leaves without being dismissed. Kirk can condone a lot, but there are times when McCoy's insubordination cannot be tolerated.

"McCoy," he calls out after him, takes great satisfaction when McCoy turns. "Don't bother wearing any clothing."

McCoy's body snaps rigidly straight, his fists ball together so tightly his knuckles turn white.

"Aye, Captain," he hisses with utmost contempt, storms off toward Chapel and doesn't look back.

Kirk spends the brief walk back to the bridge contemplating the pros and cons of making a naked McCoy wait outside his door all night.

\--

The explosion triggers four biohazard alarms.

Kirk monitors the Sickbay security feeds—notices the ripple beneath Tryreg's flesh exactly when McCoy does. He watches on his PADD as McCoy shouts something, grabs Chapel by the arm and curves his broad body around her. There's a quick flash and the cameras cut out, the red alert blaring instantly.

He knows what's going to happen. The second the alert signaled, the computer activated a hard-seal that's designed to contain potential contaminates completely. The seal lasts exactly twelve hours during which time Sickbay floods with a chemical disinfectant strong enough to strip flesh from bones before the Sickbay airlock pops open and everything not bolted down is ejected into space.

Kirk has five minutes to input the override to Sickbay. He's at Deck Seven in four, thumbs in the override code with nine seconds to spare.

The entire room is coated in a thick, murky red substance that smells like decayed blood and engine oil. Tryreg's three thousand year run is reduced to the charred, smoldering hunk of flesh steaming on a bio-bed. Chapel is flat on her back in a pool of blood. She's completely uninjured and the front of her uniform still pristine despite being so close to the explosion.

Kirk remembers the panicked way McCoy used his body to shield her from the blast. If McCoy vaporized himself for the safety of the nurse, Kirk was going to make sure Chapel's agony lasted as long as it took to find a new Chief Physician that interested him even half as much as McCoy. 

"Where is he?" his grip on Chapel's neck is tight enough to snap the bone. They both know he won't kill her—that's Scotty's privilege and his alone. Still, she wisely doesn't attempt to struggle or break his hold, just tenses her throat.

Then Kirk hears a low whimper.

He drops Chapel so quickly she stumbles, slips in a puddle of tacky, slick blood. The sound came from under the bio-bed. He sees McCoy's empty boots, and soiled pants and blue medical tunic covering a quivering lump. Kirk pulls at the bloody fabric until he hits warm flesh.

He peels back the shirt, sees a small trembling child.

The boy looks up at Kirk with fear and confusion in his wide, hazel eyes. His full, soft mouth quivers as he takes in the destruction around him, inhales the pungent smell of death he's soaked in.

"Stay away," the boy threatens, his soft, childlike voice laced through with a twangy, Southern accent.

Kirk stares at the boy, takes in the heart shaped face, the thick, soft eyebrows pulled tightly together in confusion under the soft shag of his brown hair, the tiny, skin-colored mole low on his chin.

Kirk leans in closer, breathes in the scent of McCoy's skin. "McCoy?"

The kid lashes out and slams his open palm against Kirk's nose. The blow is strong enough to blur Kirk's vision with white balls of light, to stun him long enough for McCoy to race past him and toward the open door.

Kirk curses loud enough to make Chapel scramble back and turns to follow the tiny, child-sized bloody footprints onto his ship.

\--

For being so small, McCoy is annoyingly quick. The footprints wind down two corridors, dry out at a hallway that veers in three directions. Kirk doesn't have time to play McCoy's little games, thinks about calling security to drag him out from whatever hiding spot he's managed to find.

He immediately dismisses the idea. The CMO of an Imperial Starship is a powerful bargaining chip—McCoy's death is an immediate promotion for every blue shirt onboard. As a fully-grown adult, McCoy was vulnerable; as a child, he'd be completely defenseless.

Kirk growls, tries to rub away the headache forming behind his eyes. He usually has McCoy alleviate them with a liberal application of his mouth on Kirk's cock until the orgasm whitewashes his body and wipes the slate clean.

Instead, he's playing hide-and-seek with McCoy's younger self, on a ship with over seven hundred rooms and one hundred and fifty corridors and hallways. He turns left—catches a break—sees a smear of blood on a door where McCoy's damp shirt most likely grazed.

Kirk enters, commands the lights to full, watches as the room brightens in three notches.

"I'm not going to chase you around my ship all day, kid," he warns, scans the area for any signs of movement.

The room's filled with spare daggers and knives, probably half a dozen faulty phasers and every form of throwing weapon available. It's a wide-open space with no extra rooms to escape into, just the narrow divide where they keep the bamboo staffs. It's a tight squeeze, but someone as thin as Chekov—as tiny as McCoy is now—could probably wiggle in with relative ease.

Kirk walks over to the wall, crouches down low. He can see McCoy.

"Get out," he orders.

McCoy narrows his eyes and somehow manages to wedge himself deeper into the crevasse, completely out of Kirk's reach. Kirk feels his frustration just under his skin, a jagged, furious shell that's cracking rapidly. He barely manages to keep his growl in check.

"Who are you?" McCoy's just as surly as his adult self.

Kirk really doesn't have all day for this and so tries to placate McCoy. "A friend of your father."

McCoy gives him a withering look, one that insists he somehow proves it.

Kirk knows a lot about McCoy—his daughter and his divorce. He knows about his medical training and how much time he has left on his military contract. He knows how McCoy likes his whiskey and scotch, knows how to get him growling and panting through an orgasm, and how to make him resent his body as it obeys every command Kirk whispers into it. 

Kirk knows lots about McCoy, but not a single one that would come in handy in his current situation.

"You have a freckle in the middle of your back," he says, watches as McCoy's tiny body squirms in the enormous, blood-drenched blue uniform. McCoy looks over his shoulder, pulls the wide neck of the tunic tighter against his throat.

"Can't see my back," he counters.

"Fine," Kirk barks, and watches as McCoy retreats further away from him. He's seriously weighing the pros and cons of leaving McCoy in there, of sealing off the room and coming back in three days when he'd be hungry enough to cooperate. 

Instead, he thinks about McCoy in Sickbay, about him in his quarters. Kirk spent a month watching him at the Academy, waited to see how far McCoy's skills would permit his attitude, waited to make sure his insubordination wouldn't have him imprisoned or killed, waited to see how far Starfleet could break him. The nightly attacks left McCoy bruised and stiff, left his lips split and swollen, his knuckles rubbed down a layer of skin, but he never cracked, not once, not even the first time Kirk held onto his wrists and fucked him against his neighbor's front door.

McCoy was a completely different creature than what Kirk was used to, a person with no malicious intentions, designated to put together the pieces of the men Kirk cleaved apart. His temper was red-hot and broiling, so thick and scalding Kirk always woke with burns the next morning. He was all defiance and beautiful anger and Kirk took such pride in claiming him, to bending him to his hand.

He had to know something he could use.

"You don't like coconut." Kirk vaguely recalls McCoy and the Fleet issued meal plan. He did like peaches and cranberries, always ate them first.

"Papa says Imma allergic."

"Right," Kirk breezes past his admission with a wave of his hand. "And your dad's a doctor."

McCoy nods quickly, relaxes the grip on the tunic. He shuffles forward just a tiny bit, still out of Kirk's reach if he made a grab for him.

Kirk's knees start to cramp. He knows the only way McCoy's not going to be a complete pain in his ass is if he emerges from the wall on his own volition. Kirk bites the bullet, goes for broke.

"Listen, McCoy. I'm not going to hurt you. Get out of there and I'll get you some pie or something."

McCoy's wide eyes brighten. He shuffles forward quickly, right up to Kirk's crouching body and puts both his small palms on Kirk's knees to lean up. "With ice cream?"

"Sure, kid. Whatever you want."

McCoy beams, begins telling him about the peach tree his papa planted when he and his mama were first married, how his papa lets him eat one peach everyday and how his mama always lets him have another.

Kirk hasn't been able to get more than a few grunted, curse-riddled sentences out of McCoy in close to eight years, but the little boy that has to jog to keep up with Kirk's gait and stumbles on the oversized shirt, is incredibly talkative.

\--

They're in the mess for twenty-two minutes, the exact amount of time it takes McCoy to fork the last sticky bite of peach cobbler into his mouth. Kirk watches him eat the entire slice, watches as McCoy pushes up his dirty sleeves regardless of how many times they fall over his fists, how he has both his elbows anchoring him to the top of the table, his short legs strained to their maximum to see above his plate.

He's tiny, round and soft where his adult self is tall, sharp and lean. Kirk can see how the kid's widely spaced eyes, slender nose and wide mouth are going to mature into the face he knows intimately. He enjoys the way McCoy's little pouts and confused expressions make him appear even younger.

"How old are you, kid?"

"Five and a half," he says through a mouthful of ice cream. The spoon is almost as large as the width of his mouth. He has smears of peaches and ice cream all across his face, doesn't seem to mind or notice.

Five years old. The Dalaran blood somehow stripped away thirty years of his life.

"When can I go home?"

Kirk stares at McCoy's earnest face and his wide, trusting eyes. He'll need to get Chapel to organize a team to study McCoy's blood, contact the Dalarans and demand they provide him with a way to age McCoy back.

If this is permanent, Kirk knows he'll have to turn the boy over to the Empire and that he'll be stationed in one of the workhouses—most likely—the auction house. Kirk's never been interested in kids—prefers the fight only adults can provide—but there're plenty of admirals and politicians who are, who'd empty their bank accounts to have something as sweet looking as McCoy warm their beds.

Kirk's invested far too much of his time into training McCoy, has refused too many personal favors from high ranking admirals and captains who'd wanted McCoy's hands in their Sickbays, his ass in their beds. McCoy is leverage Kirk has over other captains, a pricy piece he can bargain with when he eventually grows tired of his ass.

Leonard McCoy is his. Kirk's not going to turn him loose for free.

He decides to wait for the Dalarans, to see how long McCoy's condition will take to reverse. The Enterprise can hold out five days at most—maybe a week if lucky—without a CMO.

If the transformation is permanent, Kirk will kill the kid himself.

\--

With McCoy out of Sickbay, Kirk restarts the hard-seal, lets McCoy watch as the thick, orange goo pours in and fills up the entire room. McCoy's completely fascinated, presses his face up against the observation glass and only pulls away when Chapel distracts him long enough to run a tricorder over his body.

She hands McCoy a red uniform with permanent grease streaks that Kirk knows Scotty took from Keenser to give to her. McCoy politely thanks her as she ushers him toward an empty bathroom to wash the blood off his feet and hands.

McCoy only goes inside when Kirk nods his approval.

When the bathroom door slides shut, Chapel turns to Kirk.

"We contacted the Dalarans." Chapel keeps her voice steady and even despite the trepidation that burns in her blue eyes. "They've reviewed Doctor McCoy's blood work from his file to the readings I pulled earlier."

Kirk watches the bathroom door, glares as her in the reflection from the polished metal.

Chapel takes a steadying breath before she continues. "The Dalarans have concluded that the blast," she sucks in another mouthful of air, "that Doctor McCoy was too close to the blast and was killed. The Dalarans are positive he's only alive now because the explosion grafted Dalaran blood to his genetic code."

The calm that settles through Kirk is deceptive and boiling hot. "So McCoy is dead?"

"No," Chapel quickly explains. "Dalaran physiology doesn't rebirth a life, just restarts one. "

"Is it reversible?"

"They're looking. They aren't sure, Captain."

 _Kill him_ , Kirk's mind instantly supplies. _He's useless_.

His jaw feels wired shut, his pulse quickening.

McCoy emerges, scratches at his painfully exposed neck. The shirt and pants are still too big for him, the sleeves droop to his knees, the cuff of his pants long enough to walk on. His feet are bare and the fringe of his bangs completely covers his eyes.

Now, fresh and clean, McCoy's looks so young, so little and powerless. McCoy wasn't raised like most Empire children, had the unfortunate luck of falling in love with one and marrying into one of the more savage Southern families. McCoy had grown up cared for and loved and coddled. He wouldn't last a day in the orphanages.

The crew was going to come sniffing McCoy out, fresh blood in a stagnant sea. It would be an act of mercy to kill him where he stood.

Kirk's hand is on his dagger. It's not the first time he's killed an officer. By all rights, ending McCoy's life should be the easiest thing he's ever done.

McCoy stares up at Kirk like he's waiting for orders.

Kirk dismisses Chapel, watches as she pleads silently, salutes with a quiver and rushes back to Sickbay. Kirk waits till he can no longer hear the click of her boots before he takes his hand off his knife.

He drops down to look McCoy in the eyes.

"There are a lot of bad people on this ship," Kirk starts, realizes that's all he has to say.

McCoy looks confused.

"What about you?"

"Kid, I'm the worst."

McCoy nods like he understands but stays close to Kirk's leg when he starts walking him toward his room. McCoy has to sprint to keep up, pants with little gasps when they finally arrive at the door.

They both enter; the first time in years Kirk's had McCoy inside without a single desire to fuck him. He walks over to his bar, pulls a swig directly from a bottle of scotch before he pours himself a full glass that he finishes in three swallows.

When he turns around, McCoy's already asleep in the middle of his couch, curled up into a red and black ball.

Kirk's never had to deal with kids before. The youngest he'd ever stayed in prolonged contact with is Chekov, and even then, Chekov is as lethal as the poison that tips his daggers. He's never once spared a second thought to Chekov's safety—anyone's safety, really—but now he's stuck with the child version of his Chief Physician who has no idea what his future has in store for him.

When the Dalarans figure out a way to reverse this, Kirk better be able to forget McCoy's soft little face and innocent eyes.

If this fucked with him getting his dick sucked, he was not going to be pleased.

\--

Kirk wakes up two hours before his alarm with an uncomfortable hard-on pressed against his stomach.

It's an unfamiliar experience waking up in his bed alone, especially when he can still smell McCoy on his pillows, when McCoy's soft, uneven breathing currently echoes in the air of his room.

Kirk's irritated that he has to resort to his hand for any relief. He doesn't always fuck McCoy at night, but he does wake up every morning with McCoy pressed against him—miles of gloriously naked, sleep warm skin all Kirk's for the taking. Kirk likes it best when he slides up McCoy's back and rocks his morning wood against the crack of McCoy's ass, bites down on McCoy's shoulders until McCoy'll lazily push back, too sleepy to put up all his defenses.

The rush Kirk gets watching McCoy rut against his palm and get himself off with choked, wet whimpers, with desperate, needy movement, is always enough to sate Kirk's hunger. There have been times—usually first thing in the morning, right after McCoy's come and Kirk's busy licking his fingers clean—that McCoy will turn to him, will suck on Kirk's tongue and growl _"fuck me"_ , will roll onto Kirk and make him earn his orgasm like he's fighting for air while drowning.

McCoy always lets Kirk come in him, clenches on Kirk's softening dick and milks out every drop before he rolls himself off Kirk's body and limps over to the sonic shower. McCoy's usually dressed and out the door before Kirk's heart has stopped racing.

Kirk likes those mornings, plans on having many, many more of them.

Now, seeing McCoy's little body curled up on his couch—head resting in the pooled fabric of Keenser's spare uniform—makes Kirk's dick forcibly retract.

He needs to figure out what he's going to do with McCoy—knows he can't leave him alone—knows he can't leave him anywhere without constant supervision.

Kirk knows Chekov's probably the safest guardian. He and McCoy have a strange friendship that Kirk's never been able to pry out of either of them. Kirk's sure they fucked when Chekov was transferred to the Enterprise, but McCoy wouldn't risk Kirk's wrath and Chekov would never have let Kirk's ownership go unchallenged had he any idea just how sweet McCoy tasted.

Scotty's the only other officer on board McCoy seems calm around. Kirk's lost count of how many times he's found McCoy in engineering with a half empty bottle of whiskey between them, McCoy's smile a little less sharp, his eyes a little less guarded. The scene's as familiar to him as Scotty in Sickbay with Chapel in his lap and McCoy loose-limbed and stretched across a bio-bed, two half-empty glasses of scotch shared between the three of them.

Kirk can take Chekov and Scotty off the work schedule for a few days, put them on babysitting duty until the Dalarans reverse whatever it is that's keeping Kirk from pinning McCoy down getting rid of the ache in his cock.

He spends the rest of the time before his alarm watching McCoy sleep. McCoy's hair is a shaggy, tussled mess—so long his bangs droop down to his nose. Kirk's always preferred McCoy's hair to be a little longer than regulation, likes how it slips through his fingers, how he uses a sharp tug here and there to guide the pace of McCoy's mouth.

Kirk pushes McCoy's hair off his face, feels the thick, fuzzy arch of his eyebrows, sees the soft flutter of his dark eyelashes on his round, pink cheeks. He's never been able to get away with touching McCoy like this.

There are times when McCoy's body seemed tuned to Kirk's intentions, his eyelashes fluttering awake seconds before Kirk can get his fingers on him. McCoy's glare is deadly, but Kirk's always been immune—indulged shamelessly—whenever McCoy would grapple and pin Kirk, when he would hiss and curse and leave every inch of Kirk's skin feeling raw and sensitive. Deep down, past the healer's oath, McCoy's got a warrior spirit, has the strength and the sway to make Kirk bleed for days and love every second of it. He never feels more alive than when he's got McCoy's teeth in his neck, his hands squeezing around the thundering pulse of McCoy's wrists, McCoy's come warm and tacky against his skin.

Kirk values equals, knows each member of his crew is worthy of the post he's assigned them, knows he's assembled a team powerful enough to conquer the Empire and dominate the stars. The second someone's outlived their usefulness, Kirk's never had a problem authorizing an assassination, approving the murders of even his closest staff members.

Kirk slides his fingers along McCoy's neck, feels the steady thump of life. McCoy's so, so small; narrow, frail shoulders and thin arms. McCoy's always been raw power, strength in all the right places but never trained to kill, just to hold and fix. His death would be a blow, but there are hundreds of doctors in the Fleet, all equally ready to fall into Kirk's bed and Sickbay.

Kirk could kill McCoy now, trade out his tiny body for a CMO that would serve and service his every whim, a doctor who'd willingly obey his commands, would torture without hesitation, would guard Kirk's life as if their very own was tied to it.

Someone a little more fun, who didn't argue and make Kirk's temper flair before they'd cede and drop to their knees, someone who wouldn't make Kirk come close to begging before making him come.

 _Kill him_ , his mind supplies again, louder.

Kirk tightens his grip a fraction, McCoy's neck soft and freckled and fragile like glass. He keeps his fingers there—the slightest amount of pressure—for a long, long time.

He's never hesitated like this before.

He growls at himself, uncurls his hand and marches over to his bathroom, turns up the pressure in the sonics until his skin ripples and turns bright pink.

\--

Kirk comms Scotty and Chekov to his quarters—will let them duke it out for babysitting privileges once they arrive.

He shakes McCoy awake, watches McCoy's enormous hazel eyes try to focus. McCoy pushes himself up, rubs away the sleep with his chubby fists, blinks at the unfamiliar room a few times before realization dawns on him and he looks directly into Kirk's eyes.

"Hi," he croaks, tired and Georgian thick, so small and feeble Kirk snarls. Not once in eight years has McCoy looked up at him like that, sounded as vulnerable as he does. The sheer size of McCoy now—his weakness—sickens Kirk.

He doesn't want anyone else.

"Bathroom," Kirk barks, needs McCoy as far away from him as he can get. McCoy's immune to the tone—doesn't understand the implication of Kirk's anger—and slides off the couch, stumbles on the long hem of the pants and shuffles to where Kirk points.

The chime on the door rings.

Chekov and Scotty arrive at exactly the same time, both suspicious, both eyeing Kirk as if plotting a course of attack they could implement if needed. Scotty cracks his fingers, his metal-coated knuckles rubbing together as a constant reminder he could crush a skull with one punch.

Kirk doesn't even need to look to know Chekov's blades are up his sleeves, can practically smell the iron and the poison in the air.

"Boys." Kirk lets them set inside, watches as two sets of light blue eyes scan their surroundings.

McCoy takes that moment to step out of the bathroom and both men's attention are instantly diverted.

Scotty's the first to say anything.

"Little young, in't he, Jimmy?" There's humor behind his words, but Scotty's smirk makes Kirk's blood boil.

"It's McCoy," Kirk hears the growl in his voice, doesn't care enough to mask his disapproval. McCoy looks up at him with _concern_ , like his useless little body could do _anything_

" _Ahh_." Scotty's brain connects the dots upon seeing Keenser's uniform, the red alert from yesterday, whistles.

"Who are you?" McCoy asks, stands next to Kirk's legs, stares down at Kirk's feet—up at his crossed arms and straight back. McCoy imitates Kirk's pose—his annoyance—furrows his eyebrows together and manages to look even younger.

"Don't be rude," Kirk snaps when Scotty and Chekov remain silent.

They both introduce themselves awkwardly—Scotty amused and Chekov wary. Scotty drops to his knees, looks McCoy straight in the eye and relaxes his mouth so his scars don't stretch menacingly. McCoy looks up from Kirk's side, cautiously heeding Kirk's earlier warning. He balls his small fingers in the fabric behind Kirk's knee and Kirk immediately jerks away—startled—and dislodges McCoy's grip.

McCoy takes it as permission to step forward, stands inches away from Scotty—has absolutely no idea what Scotty's capable of if he puts his mind and fists to work.

"Keptin." Chekov still hasn't taken his eyes off McCoy. "If—"

"If anyone outside of this room approaches him, you kill them. Got it?"

"Aye." Both men chime, boot heels clicking together.

"Hide him somewhere until Beta. I don't want the crew knowing."

"Ja," Chekov salutes, immediately leaves to scout the area and clear a path.

Scotty waits exactly twenty seconds before starting out.

"Away, lad," Scotty encourages and McCoy goes willingly once Kirk nods. They've barely taken a step when McCoy reaches up and takes Scotty's hand, looks up and tells him about the peach tree in his backyard. 

Kirk doesn't want Scotty finding out the rest of the story.

He doesn't know why it bothers him so much that he will.

\--

In space, there's no tangible way to monitor the passing of time. Blackness greets you when you wake, is there when you shut your eyes.

Kirk's always known what time it was—what day it was—how much longer he had on the five year tour. He's never cursed this innate ability before, considered it another skill in his arsenal. He's never been so keenly aware of every second, though; never known just how slow Alpha shift could drag on.

Scotty took McCoy to engineering. No red shirt's stupid enough to bother Scotty when he's working, yet every single one will drop their task the second he bellows. The loyalty the engineers show is admirable, but Kirk's sure it's born more from fear than respect. No one in their right mind would even think of harming Scotty unless they want the wrath of Jonathan Archer following them for the rest of their existence.

Kirk lets his duties distract him from thoughts of McCoy and Scotty. Rand hands him form after form to approve until he loses his patience and commands her away. He immediately pulls up every monitor in engineering and scans each monitor for McCoy, his scowl growing thicker and uglier with every empty screen.

Midway through Alpha, Kirk considers leaving the bridge to find out exactly where Scotty's been hiding McCoy.

As he's about to leave, he sees Chapel's shiny blonde hair on the camera that monitors the entrance to engineering. Kirk follows her and the heavy bag she's carrying through the bowels of the ship, through doors and behind turbines and filtration systems, to the only room he hadn't checked before. The first thing Kirk had learned about McCoy was his pathological terror of confined areas. How Scotty managed to get him into the engine control room—the tightest squeeze in all the Enterprise—is beyond Kirk.

He enlarges the monitor, transfers the image to his personal PADD and watches hungrily. He sees the red of Scotty's hair immediately, the blue of Chapel's skirt at the door. Scotty turns to face her, swivels on the lone chair, and McCoy's tiny frame pops into view, perched on Scotty's lap.

McCoy's face lights up when he sees Chapel, points to the controls and levers and buttons and presses two in rapid succession. Chapel's eyes are on Scotty as McCoy keeps babbling, giddy and jubilant and Chapel and Scotty's faces simultaneously break into sharp smiles.

Chapel beacons him outside, sets the bag in her hands on the nearest control station, opens it, and pulls out containers of food. McCoy scampers off Scotty's lap and rushes toward the food, waits while Chapel peels back the lids and tucks in with relish. Chapel scans him with a Tricorder while Scotty leans against the doorframe, smiling down at the scene.

McCoy's laughing—smiling.

Only three hours, forty-eight minutes till Beta.

\--

Chekov delivers McCoy to Kirk's room before the Beta shift change is complete.

Once they step into Kirk's room, McCoy lets go of Chekov's fingers and runs to the couch, climbs up and immediately begins twisting and turning the knobs and levers and blocks on a contraption he has with him.

Chekov lingers, watches McCoy with fond, expressive eyes. Kirk stares at Chekov, catalogues the way his wire tight posture is loose at the shoulders, how his guard is down, his focus entirely dedicated to McCoy and his toy. In a bold move, Chekov walks into Kirk's quarters and sits beside McCoy, touches the toy and explains something to him in a hushed, soft voice.

McCoy follows Chekov's instructions, bends the blocks and tugs the levels Chekov points to. McCoy's face lights up when the toy collapses into a new puzzle, his thick eyebrows instantly scrunch together as he works on the new puzzle. It takes two minutes, but the game collapses into itself again and McCoy's triumphant smile brightens the room like a flash bomb. 

Kirk feels a vein in his head throb in annoyance as McCoy stares up at Chekov with stars in his eyes. 

"Poka, Leo," Chekov says as he stands to leave.

The intimate nickname sends a ripple of anger through Kirk. It's been eight years and McCoy's only ever responded to 'McCoy', looked physically ill whenever Kirk lost his patience and called him Leonard.

"Poka, Pavel," McCoy replies, concentration still devoted to the game. Chekov touches the top of McCoy's head, lets his fingers trail across the loose strands of McCoy's hair.

Kirk memorizes the look on Chekov's face—the longing.

Kirk could have him rot in a Booth—should punish Chekov's brazenness—his insolence. Chekov pauses respectfully beside Kirk, looks at him for the first time since he entered the room and lays his hands flat at his side like he does when he expects a punishment.

His compliance is new. Chekov has a wicked sense of humor, likes to chop off parts of Kirk's security detail before he marches himself to the Booths and accepts his punishment. He's already had his fun—took exactly what he wanted.

Chekov can't even dream of what Kirk's going to do to him.

\--

After a week, they fall into a routine.

Scott arrives before Alpha, will let McCoy climb up onto his back, and whisks him off to engineering. Kirk still watches them from his chair from time to time, sees Scotty patiently explaining each valve and monitor, sees Scotty clear out an entire section of engineering and slide McCoy under the warp drives, whispering all his engineering secrets into McCoy's ear.

Fifteen minutes before Beta, Chekov will arrive and bring McCoy back to his tidy, spartan room and show McCoy how to assemble one of the little puzzles he's become addicted to playing. He's incredibly clever, hands Chekov back a finished puzzle or a PADD filled with readings and begs for more. Kirk's known dictators and generals that would fall under the full force of McCoy's pout, of his wide, hazel eyes.

McCoy's brilliant, even at this age; his young mind soaks up every bit of information spoken around him, spits it all back to Kirk with photographic precision. He shows Kirk every puzzle he completes with a naked hope in his eyes, seeks out Kirk's approval and praise despite Kirk doing nothing to earn it. 

McCoy always comes back to Kirk's room for the night and will babble on and on about how strong Scotty is, how he tightened a leaking valve with just his hands, how he lifted a fan that three red-faced, grunting engineers had delivered. McCoy goes on and on about how Scotty lets him push all the blinking buttons in the engine control room, how Scotty let him flush three engines, how Scotty cheered when he told him he kept the whole ship safe, how Scotty replicated some ice cream, but not to tell _Miss Christine_.

"Shut up about Scotty," Kirk exploded one night, slammed his fork hard enough all the prongs bent. McCoy jumped in his seat, clamed his mouth shut and ate the rest of his food in silence.

Kirk thought that might have been the end of it, but the next night he was regaled with stories of _Pavel_ and how smart he was, how Pavel could solve all the puzzles McCoy made almost as soon as McCoy handed them to him, how Pavel showed him how to toss one of the little daggers he kept in his boot, how he'd almost hit the makeshift bullseye Pavel made on his wall. McCoy talks about Chekov with wonder in his voice—like Chekov's a mythical figure—a titan.

Kirk wants to tell him Scotty and Chekov obey his orders, that Scotty and Chekov are pawns he moves around wherever he feels them best implemented, that Scotty and Chekov would lay down their lives for him the moment Kirk commanded them to. Scotty and Chekov are just men and Kirk is a captain.

He doesn't, though; lets his irrational jealousy gnaw at his insides. McCoy still talks about his day until his yawns blunder his words and Kirk still hasn't made it one day without losing his temper, hissing out curses and commands for silence. McCoy still clamps his mouth shut, loses just a bit of the excitement in his eyes, and will keep to himself, playing with old puzzles until he curls up into himself and drops off to sleep.

The pattern repeats the next day like clockwork.

Kirk's beginning to resent this McCoy; this small child who talks and talks and races toward him with a sunny smile and the need for approval burning so brightly it scorches. His McCoy is snarls and sharp glares and a soft, pliant mouth after hours of teasing. His McCoy barely says a word unless Kirk's dick is inside him, making him sing. His McCoy would sooner chew his tongue off than give Kirk an inch. 

It's never been this easy, always a struggle. This McCoy is ready to spill his heart at the drop of a hat, _wants_ Kirk to ask him questions, _pleads_ with a pained hitch in his low, Georgian voice to take part of his life.

He's so willing to give and give and Kirk refuses to take a single thing.

\--

The Clarion attack is scattered and unorganized. Their rebellion is easy enough to suppress, but drove after drove of Clarions sacrifice themselves in a never-ending stream of translucent blood. It takes hours and hours to kill the very last one, hours that drag the battle well past Beta and midway through Gamma.

Kirk was forced to stay for the whole battle, ordering weapons to fire and fire and fire until his eyes blurred photon red and his back ached from sitting in the hard metal of his chair. He's exhausted by the time Sulu and Spock begin the damage report, by the time Uhura contacts the Clarion parliament to organize a ceasefire.

Usually, after battles, Kirk has to drag McCoy out of Sickbay, will haul him to his quarters despite McCoy's acidic threats and will let McCoy's tight ass soak up the adrenaline pounding through his system. Kirk's made the Empire billions of credits, has enslaved dozens of planets and yet no spoils of war have ever been quite as sweet as McCoy moaning around his cock, screaming out his name as Kirk hammers into his ass and makes him see stars.

They don't suffer a single casualty this time, no one even reporting so much as a scrape. Tonight would have been the perfect time to have McCoy on all fours, ass tilted up as he bit his knuckles bloody trying to keep his groans from slipping out his mouth. Kirk could have ordered McCoy to hold himself open as Kirk sunk in again and again and again, could have whispered meaningless threats of chains and toys and kept McCoy strung out on thick, hot pleasure until his rangy body buckled and convulsed and moved in tune with Kirk's thrusts.

The thought leaves a heavy ache in Kirk's cock, one that further fouls his mood. His body wants McCoy's mouth, wants his thick, slick hair curled around his fingers. McCoy's never gagged—not once—actually loves sucking cock almost as much as Kirk loves getting his cock sucked.

There's always a point before McCoy caves that Kirk finds exhilarating; that he works hard to get to. Kirk knows when he's gotten there when McCoy's fingers uncurl from Kirk's shirt and intertwine with his tangled fingers, will apply pressure to his own head and swallow down every inch Kirk offers him. Kirk always lets McCoy take over and just rides out the orgasm that rockets through his spine and numbs his legs.

Right after Kirk comes, he has to battle McCoy's tongue for his taste, has to grip McCoy's jaw to keep it open wide enough so he can bite and suck and lick away every last drop until all he can taste is McCoy's spit, deep in the back of his throat.

Those orgasms are always the best Kirk's ever had; are his and his alone.

He enters his quarters as exhaustion presses against his eyelids.

The room is completely silent and completely empty, no small bundle of red in the middle of his couch, filling the room with soft, sweet sounding snore.

He's standing in front of Chekov's door before he even realizes he's moved.

\--

They're in the middle of Chekov's bed—Chekov awake and reclined against his headboard, McCoy dead to the world and sprawled against Chekov's chest. McCoy's a lump of swaddled gold—Chekov's uniform tucked and wrapped around his small body like a blanket.

Chekov doesn't acknowledge Kirk's presence—instead—keeps his gaze pinned squarely on McCoy's round, freckled face. McCoy's head is tucked under Chekov's chin, Chekov's fingers gently combing through McCoy's hair. He's completely captivated with every soft inhale McCoy takes, tightens his grip whenever McCoy's body squirms and burrows closer to his chest. Kirk knows that McCoy likes having a heartbeat under his ear, a pulse throbbing under his fingertips, when he sleeps—only seems to settle when he can feel life against his skin.

Kirk's never had to share anything a day in his life. Seeing McCoy so comfortably and peacefully stretched against Chekov fuels an overwhelming need to pry Chekov from McCoy's body, to cut every digit from Chekov's hand and Booth him until his muscles and tendons and nerves sever from his body and leave him a useless sack of meat. 

He makes no move, just watches as Chekov rubs small circles into McCoy's back.

When Chekov finally lifts his eyes to Kirk's, Kirk sees a bottomless pit of defiance, of rebellion and longing and ache.

"Give him to me," Kirk commands, holds out his arms expectantly.

For a minute, Kirk thinks Chekov is going to refuse. He hesitates long enough for Kirk to justify _hours_ in the Booth, but Chekov slowly pushes the blankets away from his legs and walks McCoy over to him.

McCoy wakes as he's handed off. He drowsily blinks before realizing who's holding him, closes his eyes and nuzzles his head under Kirk's chin, wraps his short arms and legs around Kirk's chest.

Kirk coils his arm around McCoy to brace his weight and stares Chekov in the eyes. Chekov watches McCoy tighten his arms and legs; wiggle until Kirk tightens his arm and sighs happily. Chekov watches as McCoy breathes in and out against Kirk's neck, can see the serene smile Kirk can only feel against his skin.

The look on Chekov's face is worth the hours of discomfort he felt, is worth the ache along his spine. Chekov might protect McCoy day in and day out, but Kirk is still the one McCoy's drawn to, is still the one McCoy easily surrenders to—has since ever since the first day and peach cobbler.

"He did not like the explosions," Chekov says sadly, holds his wrinkled, gold uniform like a white flag.

The victory tastes so sweet in his mouth that Kirk has to fight the smile on his face.

McCoy sleeps until morning.

\--

Because the Empire runs on paperwork just as much as it does blood, the Clarions send an Ambassador to negotiate the terms of their surrender.

Kirk's the best negotiator the Empire has, but the Clarions somehow managed to find the only creature that's more silver tongued than Kirk is. They're locked in Kirk's quarters for hours, debating every point, pushing for every inch and rejecting every word the other spouts. Kirk actually enjoys the challenge, starts to crave the lingering victory he can sense in the distance against the creature with wide-set eyes and fingers like worms.

Aaran keeps Kirk on his toes, gets him to concede certain things Kirk would have rather not agreed to. Kirk manages to milk an extra six percent out of the Empire tax, which Aaran glowers over. He stubbornly refuses access to their mines, though, and Kirk knows Archer would have his balls if he didn't come away with at least that.

Kirk's about to counteroffer when his door opens and McCoy rushes in; nearly slams into Kirk's legs in his excitement.

Kirk stops McCoy with his palm, turns to meet Scotty's cool eyes as he scans the scene before him. Kirk waves Scotty away, and Scotty gives a mocking salutes and leaves. When Kirk turns back, he sees McCoy and Aaran engaged in conversation. McCoy shows him the puzzle in his hands with pride in his eyes; Aaran stares down at McCoy like he's ravenous.

"Aren't you clever," Aaran says, slow and heavy, his breathing a wet, soggy sound in the air. His fingers wriggle erratically in his lap, his eyes a vivid violet. His forked tongue flickers across his lips as he bends to see the puzzle McCoy offers him—none too subtly inhales as McCoy steps close.

Kirk doesn't like the way Aaran is looking at McCoy.

"McCoy," Kirk calls, beacons him to his side. McCoy races toward him—happily—and offers Kirk the toy. Kirk plucks the puzzle from McCoy's fingers and drops on the table without so much as a second glance. McCoy still looks up, smiles so wide Kirk can see all his tiny, white teeth.

Something pulls tight in Kirk's chest, makes it hard to swallow.

Kirk ignores the tightness, only realizes his hand is cupping McCoy's head when McCoy laughs as Kirk grazes behind his ear—a spot that usually makes him curse when bitten hard.

Aaran makes a pained, weak sound. He licks his lips again, fingers wriggling and stretching as if trying to detach from his body and crawl all over McCoy's skin. Kirk holds McCoy closer, glares at Aaran's arms, how the scaly skin swells. The Clarions might not be a race Kirk is well versed in, but the signs of Aaran's arousal are impossible to miss.

"Go clean up." Kirk pushes McCoy toward the bathroom, needs him far away. McCoy nods and races off, thrilled he's got Kirk's attention.

Aaran watches the bathroom door close, keeps his vision pinned there as if he could see through the metal.

"Children," Aaran purrs huskily, keeps inhaling deeply like he can't get enough air. "Always so _eager_ to please."

The words grate Kirk's nerves like salt in a wound, but he forces a smile.

"Is the boy yours?"

"The treaty, Ambassador," Kirk draws his attention back to the PADD.

"Of course," Aaran begins, voice oozing. "Perhaps I was a bit hasty in our negotiations. Perhaps we can come to some sort of… _arrangement_ concerning your demands."

"What kind of, _arrangement_?"

Aaran licks his lips again and glances to the bathroom door. "The undocumented kind, naturally."

"Naturally." The word slips from Kirk's lips with a frigid edge; the killing frost over crops.

Aaran beams, holds the PADD with the treaty in two squirming hands. "Your offer is _quite_ generous, after all."

Kirk's smile feels rusty, but Aaran is too blind to notice. He purrs and squirms, keys in his ID code and password while staring at the bathroom door.

Kirk grabs the PADD from his slithering fingers, keys in his own signature quickly and keeps his eyes on Aaran while he transfers the information to Uhura to relay to the Clarion government and the Empire.

He turns his back just long enough to upload the data, to command Uhura to be done with the Clarions _yesterday_ and closes the comm link with a furious push of a button.

When Kirk spins around, Aaran is nowhere to be seen.

 _McCoy_.

Kirk can picture McCoy's confusion, the panic that'd creep into his eyes and the stubborn bravery he'd attempt to display. He can imagine McCoy's frantic eyes searching Kirk out, knows he won't scream for help, knows he'd keep perfectly still and squeeze his eyes shut as Aaran dragged his perverted fingers all across his soft, naked skin.

Kirk charges through his room, storms into the bathroom and sees Aaran cornering McCoy, sees his wormy fingers gliding down McCoy's freckled cheeks as McCoy cries through clenched eyes.

There's a moment where Kirk forgets the years of training drilled into him, forgets about everything that isn't his rage, his disgust. He uses both of Chekov's daggers, rips through Aaran's chest, stabs through Aaran's back like he's at a punching bag. He growls as he feels the clear, watery blood slide down his arms, damped his pants, can't get his blades to cut and gouge fast enough.

McCoy only opens his eyes when Kirk stops hissing, sees Aaran mutilated corpse slide off of Chekov's daggers.

McCoy lets out a broken, pained sound and races to Kirk's couch, burrows under his blankets in a tight ball and cries the whole night. He begs to go home, sobs with such broken terror Kirk wants to put his hands on him.

There's no way he can tell the sobbing five year old he's already home.

\--

Chekov shows up minutes after Scotty's taken McCoy.

He enters Kirk's room, stands straight and tall with a fire burning in his eyes. He has both his daggers clenched in his hands, the poisons freshly applied and glossy on the blades. Kirk stares up at him from his desk, stands and crosses his arms, wonders if Chekov's really foolish enough to try and end it here, like this.

Chekov's speed has always been his greatest asset. Kirk's studied his technique meticulously but knows he'd never be able to gain an advantage in a one-on-one fight, would be forced to parry and deflect the whole time. Chekov approaches and Kirk wraps his fingers around the dagger in his belt.

It happens quickly.

Chekov spins his daggers in his hands and before Kirk can pull his blade, Chekov gracefully drops to his knees and offers up the hilts of both weapons. For a moment, Kirk is so stunned he takes a step back—corrects himself quickly—and yanks the knives from Chekov's loose grip.

It's not quite the ultimate act of submission, more like an exchange. Chekov is offering Kirk his neck—is promising him his life. Kirk doesn't even need to ask what Chekov wants in return, knows it was sleeping under a blanket in the middle of his couch not ten minutes ago.

"Give him to me," Chekov pleads. His voice is more respectful than it's ever been. He bares the back of his neck, a clean, white column for Kirk to stain red.

Chekov's reliable, but he's ambitious. He's the youngest graduate the Academy's ever encountered, is brilliant enough to keep Spock engaged in complex, theoretical conversations, is proficient in enough languages to make Uhura obsolete, can pilot the ship almost as well as Sulu and is the only one Scotty's ever trusted to tinker with his precious engines. Chekov's the biggest threat Kirk has on board; will be the biggest threat once he manages to slit enough throats to gain his own ship.

If Kirk accepts his offer—if Kirk gives this useless, _weak_ infant to Chekov—Chekov is promising Kirk his loyalty, his life. Chekov is willing to bare his neck to Kirk's blade, all so he can have McCoy at his side.

 _Accept_ , his brain screams.

"No," Kirk spits. Chekov is still kneeling, fingers clenched tightly around the knees of his pants. He doesn't look up, keeps his mop of curls facing the polished floor.

"I can keep him safe," Chekov tries again. Kirk can hear the conviction in Chekov's voice; wonders exactly what McCoy did to inspire such fierce loyalty—such overwhelming devotion.

"What's in this for you?" Kirk crouches down. He searches Chekov's eyes, sees defiance and anger swirling together. "If it's to get into his bed, you're wasting your time."

Chekov bristles, wide, faun eyes narrowing like a python. This is the killer Kirk brought aboard his ship; this is the young boy who could carve out the constellations on a man's flesh and have him live through every agonizing slice. 

Kirk's suddenly stricken with the images of McCoy and Chekov, of them in bed, of McCoy's soft, full mouth sliding against Chekov's pale, smooth skin, of Chekov's long, willowy fingers fisting McCoy's hair. A tight ass has always gone a long way in the Empire; McCoy's the one Kirk's enjoyed the most.

Kirk's envy burns white hot in his gut, tastes like acid on his tongue. He wants to spew his dissatisfaction, wants to flay the skin from Chekov's lithe body and burn away every last trace of him, wants to clench his fingers through the white ash that would remain and scrub off every last trace of him from McCoy's memory.

"You've fucked, haven't you?" He slides a blade under Chekov's chin, raises his head with the sharp edge denting his skin.

"No," Chekov spits, tight lipped and furious. If they haven't it's certainly not from lack of effort on Chekov's part.

He lets the blade dig in a little deeper. "Now would be a very bad time to lie to me, Chekov."

"Nyet," he spits again, knocks away the blade with a flick of his wrist, is on his feet again and stalking toward the door. Kirk can feel the shame radiating from his body, his rejection.

Kirk doesn't believe him.

"You'd kill me to have him, wouldn't you?"

Chekov pauses, balls both fists. "Aye."

"Then what's stopping you?" Kirk barks, has to know.

Chekov turns, keeps his face schooled. "I vill not make him unhappy to make myself happy."

The words hit like punches to broken bones, release the flood of shame that saturate Kirk's pores like honey and cement.

"Get out," Kirk barks, comms security to throw Chekov in the Booth the second they see him.

\--

Seventeen days pass before McCoy's presence becomes known.

Like most incidents, it starts with an explosion in engineering that burns Scotty's left arm right to the muscles. He's dragged to Sickbay and drugged to the gills while M'Benga repairs each layer of skin.

People begin to wonder where Doctor McCoy is—why his bleeding heart wasn't there to tend to the wounded. On an Imperial Starship, gossip is as valid as documented information. Rumors about McCoy leak to every red, blue and gold shirt on board. Kirk made sure he assembled the best Starfleet had to offer—is almost insulted it took them as long as it did to look into McCoy's absence.

Scotty had rigged the cameras along the corridors Chekov used to stop recording the four minutes it took Chekov to bring McCoy to Kirk's quarters. Even someone assigned to the ISS Faragut could have pieced together the significance of the daily, timed blackout.

Kirk is in the bridge when the attack happens—watches the shadows flicker against the walls from his PADD. Six guards in Fleet red plug the hallway and close in around Chekov and McCoy with daggers and phasers drawn.

Kirk watches as Chekov's eyes dart across the faces surrounding him, knows that he's going to be six security guards short within the next five minutes. Chekov calmly pulls McCoy closer to his body, his long, thin blades slowly sliding from beneath his sleeves.

Chekov makes the first move—a quick jab—and Kirk bolts from the bridge, races down the corridors.

It takes Kirk two minutes to get to the corridor. The thick, coppery smell of human blood is overpowering, even two hallways away. When Kirk arrives, he almost trips on a severed arm, takes in the sight of Chekov panting as he tears his blade from the last guard, drops the body with a disgusted, Russian curse.

Chekov looks back—blades raised for further attack. He's covered in bits of flesh and blood, his curls dripping with it, his eyes hard and face expressionless. Kirk looks at Chekov's stained uniform, at his glistening blades and the cut high on his cheek. It's the killer Kirk brought aboard his ship; the boy covered in death.

Chekov breaks their gaze, turns toward the pile of bodies that are surrounding McCoy like sandbags in a trench. McCoy's staring at the bodies, drenched in blood. His eyes are wide and terrified, tears streaming down his cheeks but no sound emerging from his trembling lips.

When Chekov reaches out, McCoy whimpers and flinches, recoils in terror.

The expression on Chekov's face is enough to make Kirk's chest tighten in pain.

McCoy looks like he's about to start hyperventilating. Kirk doesn't spare Chekov another thought.

He scoops McCoy's trembling body from the carnage and squeezes him against his chest. McCoy clings to Kirk's neck, shakes like he's freezing and cries like his chest is cracking in half. Kirk presses McCoy's teary face into the crook of his neck and cups his head—lets McCoy feels his racing pulse—and rubs at his back. 

McCoy's still wire tight, his nails digging into Kirk's neck, his tears soaking Kirk's shoulders. He smells like blood and bile.

"Don't look," Kirk whispers, breaths easier when McCoy squeezes his eyes shut. Blood glues his eyelashes together in sticky clumps. 

Kirk's suddenly furious Chekov killed them, wants them all alive so he could have his turn.

"Get someone to clean this up." His voice lacks command, but Chekov nods, looks at the mess around him like he can't exactly believe he was the cause of such intense mutilation.

Kirk can, knows that Chekov did each security officer a favor. If it had been Kirk, he'd've dragged their torture and pain out for decades.

He ignores his fury in favor of getting McCoy back to his quarters.

\--

They walk to Kirk's room in silence.

Kirk keeps his hand cradling McCoy's head, keeps rubbing at McCoy's back. He's stopped crying, but he's still shivering and jerking like he's being electrocuted slowly. He only seems to inhale when Kirk's hand rubs down his neck and reminds him to breathe.

He's going into shock—probably has been since he came to in a Sickbay, covered in just as much gore. Kirk needs to clean him up, but McCoy's been terrified of the bathroom since the Clarion incident. He deposits McCoy on his table—carefully detaches his small, tight grip—and replicates hot water.

McCoy's stopped crying but his chest still hitches, his eyes weary and exhausted and the expression on his face is one Kirk's seen hundreds of times from his adult self, a look that signals he's at the end of his rope, that he's in danger of breaking apart. Kirk's always been good at keeping him afloat, always ready to fuck him until the fight flooded through his veins and the cycle would begin again.

He gets McCoy to lift up his arms, slips the soiled red shirt away and wipes the blood away, lets the water tint pink. McCoy looks at him with resign in his eyes. Kirk makes him close his eyes as he rubs the cloth across his eyelashes, erases every last trace of blood until McCoy smells like himself.

Kirk leaves him just long enough to yank out an old shirt of McCoy's, slips it on over his damp, curling hair, watches as the fabric pools around his feet. McCoy lets out a stifled whine and Kirk puts both his hands on McCoy's thin shoulder, anchors him. 

"Nobody can come in here." He lifts McCoy and places him on the couch, amidst the pile of warm quilts. McCoy slips in easily enough, tugs the blankets up to his chin. Kirk smoothes out his hair, scrubs a hand across his face, sits on his bed and watches McCoy. 

He has to get back to the bridge. 

He doesn't move.

\--

It takes hours, but McCoy succumbs to sleep. Kirk collapses, feels drained. He doesn't bother undressing, just removes his phaser and knife and pulls the blankets around him. He stares at his ceiling for a long stretch of time, knows that the Enterprise isn't safe for McCoy anymore, knows he's going to have to hand him over at the next spacedoc. Chapel's sent daily readings to the Dalarans, knows their results are just as vague as they had been the first day.

The only image running through Kirk's mind is how the perversions of the citizens of the Empire will make Aaran look like a pious man. 

Kirk throws his arm over his eyes, growls. 

He's going to have to make some calls, make sure McCoy ends up with his mother until he can arrange for a suitable family to take him in the long run. Kirk doesn't trust a single contact his family has, knows every skeleton and dirty secret. He'd trust his balls in the hands of a scorned ex before he trusted McCoy to any of the Empire's rich and privileged.

A light pressure dips the mattress. 

Kirk turns to see McCoy. 

He's quiet, looks at Kirk with wide, wet eyes. "I'm scared," he admits in a whisper. 

The air is knocked out of Kirk's lungs. His McCoy would never admit to his fear, would keep it choked down until it suffocated him. His McCoy looked at the whips and knives and chains Kirk laid out on the bed with a hint of challenge in his eyes, a tight smirk on his face. Kirk's made him bleed and still, he grunted and sucked in air and moaned for more. His McCoy's been at the receiving end of two assassination attempts, each time just barely managing to avoid the blades or phaser fire.

But this McCoy isn't Kirk's McCoy. Kirk might never get his McCoy back, knows this might be all he gets to have again.

"C'mere," he says, peels back the sheets. 

McCoy scrambles up, climbs under the sheets and glues himself to Kirk's side. He presses his face into Kirk's neck, lays his small arm against Kirk's chest. Kirk feels his eyelashes flutter shut, feels the small puff of air McCoy releases right before he drops off.

This might be all he ever gets again.

McCoy releases a small whimper and Kirk curves around him, holds McCoy tightly against his chest. He thinks about what he'd do if it had been anyone other than Chekov, had Chekov not protected him the way he had. 

This might be all Kirk ever gets again but McCoy's still alive and for now, it's enough.

\--

When Kirk wakes, McCoy isn't in his bed. He isn't in the room.

The computer tells him McCoy is in Sickbay.

When Kirk arrives, he sees McCoy—his McCoy—perched on a bio-bed.

Chapel and Ramirez hovering around him, slamming hypos into his neck and running Tricorders along every major vein, around every major organ. Kirk watches from behind a sheet of tempered glass, watches as McCoy waves them both off. Neither budge, both continue their experiments and tests as if they know Kirk would kill them if McCoy walked out of Sickbay and it happened again. 

Chapel makes him lift his arms, makes him stand and bend. McCoy's wearing just a pair of his ratty sleeping pants, his chest—the lines of his hips—on full display. Kirk inhales for what feels like the first time, lets the air flood his body the way a choking man would. He's missed McCoy's body, the way his skin tasted under his tongue. 

McCoy finally convinced both nurses to leave, rubs his eyes when Ramirez disappears. He sags down in the bio-bed—spine curving to a painful angle. For a moment, McCoy looks like he's in pain, but he quickly straightens and starts talking.

Chekov instantly materializes.

Kirk's not surprised.

Chekov walks toward McCoy the same way he would a wild animal. Chekov says something Kirk can't make out and the corners of McCoy's mouth lift into a faded smile. Chekov keeps his distance, keeps his arms crossed. Even at twenty-one, Chekov still looks like the seventeen-year-old Kirk met the first time he stepped into the Enterprise.

McCoy reaches out, hooks his fingers in the gold sash around Chekov's waist, tugs. Chekov goes easily—weightlessly—and braces himself on McCoy's thighs, stares down at his shaking hands like he's willing them to remain neutral. McCoy says something that lifts Chekov's head—something that makes them both share a private smile.

 _Thank you_ , McCoy says, drags his hands up Chekov's back, into his hair, and pulls their lips together. 

Chekov doesn't lift his hands—keeps them flat on McCoy's thighs—but opens his mouth, attacks and devours, savors. The kiss is brief by standards, but carries with it years of repressed emotions. The intensity of it is enough to draw Kirk closer, to march into Sickbay like a general leading the charge.

"Out," Kirk barks and Chekov snaps away from McCoy—hesitates for just a moment—before he vanishes just as silently as he arrived. 

McCoy doesn't look the least bit phased, like Kirk didn't just walk in on him and another man. He straightens his back, presents himself to Kirk the way Kirk likes. Usually when Kirk has McCoy alone in Sickbay, he would be between McCoy's legs, prying his lush mouth apart with his tongue and drinking his fill of McCoy. He'd already be unfastening his pants and letting McCoy's long, clever fingers curl around his heavy dick.

The desire is still there, still burning inside Kirk, yet he stays by the door, crosses his arms. McCoy looks exhausted, eyes bruised and skin pale. His hair is dull instead of sleek and shiny, bangs hanging low enough to cover his eyes.

"You died," Kirk informs evenly.

"I know," McCoy sighs, sounds as tired as he looks.

"And you remember—"

"Everything."

Ah. Well, then.

Kirk walks toward McCoy, pries his knees apart and slips between snugly, missed the feel of McCoy's thighs around his body so, so goddamn much. McCoy unconsciously angles his hips toward Kirk's body, brings them flush at the waist. Kirk combs his hair from his vision, stares down at muted green eyes, sees the dark brown iris swirling around the pupil.

He drags his thumb against McCoy's bottom lip, holds back his groan when McCoy's tongue flickers across it. As much as he wants to tip McCoy's head back and reacquaint himself with the body he hasn't felt in a month, he wants to hear McCoy's voice—feel the low rumble against his skin, hear him babbling on and on about his day.

"Why did you break the hard-seal?" 

McCoy's question comes out of left field. Kirk's brought back to that first day, when the alarm triggered and the door slammed shut. His only concern had been getting to Sickbay and stopping the procedure.

"I died," McCoy says, lets the words sinking in. 

Kirk presses his faces against McCoy's, inhales. 

"Make sure it doesn't happen again."


End file.
